After I rattled the cell bars and called out, a taciturn jailor — I assumed he was the jailor — traipsed down the outside corridor to bring me a breakfast bowl of rice soup with chicken pieces. I sipped a little. Quite spicy, yet tasty.Seemed like I would be treated civilly, if ignored.Mid-morning found me sweltering from the heat. My bucket needed replacing, if only to remove the warm stench of my previous night’s excesses, and the breakfast soup — which had flushed through my system quicker than Epsom salts. I called out while continuing to attack the cell bars, but no-one came.I had privacy, granted, apart from a few bloated cockroaches that emerged from my mattress at regular intervals to inspect my bucket, but my preference would have been contact with another human. And a bottle of ice-cold water.Where the hell were my rescuers? Bloody deserters.With lunchtime arriving and passing, and my shirt damp and sticky, I resigned myself to being sweated into submission. It wouldn’t be difficult. My view consisted of a blank wall opposite my cell, with no windows in sight. No cool breeze, no other prisoners, and no visitors, either.Apart from the roaches.Their indecision on where to go, and what to do reminded me of many stunned souls who walked the beach alongside me searching for their lost ones. Images that made me sit back on my mattress and pray for guidance and salvation.By mid-afternoon, I’d taken off my shirt, used up my images, and was at my lowest ebb when Angelique visited me.Papa, I’m here.I looked up, but she wasn’t here, merely a hot haze above my head. I blinked, but it didn’t clear.Jane is with me.I screwed up my eyes, tried to focus. ‘What? Angelique? Jane?’ Another voice.Papa, it’s Jane.Save him, Papa. Save him.Papa?She called me Papa! I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand.’They’ve taken him, Papa.‘Taken him? What do you mean?’Hospital. Go there.Then a mixture of voices inside my head, and Angelique telling me to shut them out. Close your mind, Papa. Close, quickly.I must have blacked out because when I came to, no-one was with me. But I remembered Jane calling me Papa. Was that for real? Or was she just calling me Papa, like Angelique? And how could I help her if I was stuck in this hell-hole?I was saved from another bout of unease when the corridor door opened and the sound of boots tramped down towards me. The jailor had returned, accompanied by another man dressed in a well-presented army uniform.All bells and whistles. A bloody big-wig?When he reached my cell door, he looked me up and down, inclined his head at my obvious disarray — or possibly my stressed-out scowl — and motioned to the jailor to open up.‘Come with me,’ he said in accentuated English. Three small words that filled my mind with joy and hope. Then he turned on his heels and strode back along the corridor.Thank you, Angelique, I whispered to myself as I gathered up my shirt and put it back on. The jailor led me back upstairs and, still without a word, handed me over to a police sergeant who glared at me. I felt like a silent pawn in a mindless game of charades.I had no idea what was happening — whether I was being set free, or worse, being held captive elsewhere. The army officer had disappeared, and the police sergeant emanated animosity at my presence in his domain.I sensed that his hostility extended to the army officer. Maybe a conflict of interest. Nevertheless, the sergeant escorted me back to the original, and empty, meeting room, where he motioned me to a chair, by a table that had a water jug and glass on it.Water. About bloody time.I sat alone and drank my fill until the sunset prayer — al-maghrib — had come and gone. By then, I needed my bucket, and I ventured across to the door and tested the handle. It opened, and I peered out.The sergeant was sitting at his desk reading a newspaper. I couldn’t see anyone else, so I stepped out, trudged up to him, and coughed. He glanced at me, put down his paper, and folded his arms.‘Halo,’ I said, hoping my Indonesian was adequate. ‘Kloset?’He gestured to the hallway. ‘Go,’ he said.For a moment I stood still, but as it seemed I had free rein to wander around, I turned away and looked for the WC. It was next to the entrance — an opaque glass door that also offered me an exit.Could I escape?I was in and out of the WC without drawing breath, or so it seemed. Barring my way, though, was the Army officer who gestured me back to the front desk.Sod it.

That evening, the Manor seemed more of a prison than a home. With the “boys” on safari in Sabang — God knows what they had got up to and right then, I didn’t care. My life was unravelling by the hour, I’d exhausted my options, and my future seemed bleak. I downed my G&T, poured another, and drank that, before arriving at the conclusion.Dismal.I shook off that thought. Replaced it with images of happier times. Jane telling me I’d make a good nanny...‘…Auntie, just think of it. Only seven more weeks, and you’ll have a new life in your arms. Isn’t it exciting..?’A flashlight moment. Too wrapped up with Mary — and regretfully, Hamish — I’d neglected Junior. Made me smile. I’d go see the little mite next morning. Maybe they’d even let me hold him.I slept well.

Despite my improving culinary skills, breakfast was charred toast and a Lipton’s tea bag. But my spirits were high. I even looked forward to visiting Mary again — after avoiding Beatriz, and sneaking into ICU to take a peep at Junior.The feeling of inner warmth dissipated into cold fear as I clickety-clacked along the corridor leading to ICU. My taxi ride to the hospital had been without incident. Reception (unusually quiet) had been straightforward. They knew me. ‘Visiting’, I said, and they had waved me through.The unease began as I passed Hamish’s office. Had the door been closed, I could have pictured Beatriz on her knees, licking her lips, and attending to matters in hand. But the door was open and the room was empty.Empty. No Hamish, no hungry harlot, no desk overflowing with files — all cleared.Had he finished up and left? And where was Junior?A stern-faced matron stood shielding the door to ICU. She tilted her head, and shook it. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘no visitors.’So much for my sneaking in.She could have been Beatriz 2. But more immovable. My enquiries, reasoning, and pleading all failed to produce anything other than ‘I’m new here. Ask at reception.’Damned if I was going back there. I looked at my watch. Mid-morning. Mary would be awake. Small mercies. I sighed, turned on my heels and click-clacked back down the corridor to the main wards and private rooms.Another wave of fear rolled over me when I found Mary’s room locked, but my nerves settled when I saw her belongings inside. A few minutes later, I located a nurse. One who smiled at me. Once I explained who I was (a close family friend) she told me (in confidence) Mary was having a scan, X-rays, blood tests, and enough check-ups to ensure she was fit to fly. ‘Could be hours, though,’ she said. ‘Ask at reception.’Damn. Fit to fly?All roads led to reception. I joined a queue of pregnant mothers, boisterous children, and fretful fathers. After several minutes of unruly mayhem, my enthusiasm waned. I returned to Mary’s room. The door was still locked, and the smiling nurse was not to be seen. Outside there was an empty wooden bench. I sat down, took a deep breath, and rifled through my bag for my phone.I called Richard.No answer.I called Charles.No answer.One of my fingernails had split. I spent the next few minutes scaling it down with an emery file. I looked at it, sighed, and examined the rest. Needed a new coat of paint.I called Richard and Charles again.Waited until calls went to divert.Oh, shit.I had promised myself not to — and I spent a long time peering at my phone’s display — before I made the call that would set my heart fluttering again.As it rang, I almost turned it off, but then a voice. His voice, a deep burr.‘Delcie, I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s wrong?’I choked up. Spluttered out, ‘sorry.’‘Delcie?’In the silence between us, I heard the muffled sound of a tannoy announcing a plane arrival. ‘Where are you?’ I said.He sounded breezy. ‘I’m at the airport. Escorting Junior to Jakarta.’Oh no.I didn’t know what to say. He repeated his question. I stammered out a response.‘It’s just that…I was hoping to…to see Junior.’I could sense his voice change to one of concern. ‘Junior needs specialist care, right now. I’m going to make sure that happens.’Specialist care? Oh shit.I gulped. ‘Hamish, what happened to him? Is he sick?’‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’m covering my bases.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t want to be accused of professional neglect.’Arse covering, more like. I shuffled my seat on the bench. The wood was uncomfortable. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see.’‘And if Mary gets the all-clear she’ll join me when Junior is settled in. Then we’re flying back to the UK together.’‘Oh,’ I said.‘Look, I have to go. Sorry you couldn’t see Junior. It was a bit of a rush…’His voice tailed off, and I murmured, ‘it’s alright,’ as the call ended. But it wasn’t. And that bitch, Mary, was about to abandon me, as well.How could she?I stared at her locked door. No way. I owed it to Jane and her son. I would hold him in my arms again. I would. And no-one was going to stop me. I’d wait on this sodding bench for a lifetime if need be for Mary to return. Then I’d tell her. I stood up. Clenched my fists.Jakarta, here I come.

Charles​My “interview” with the Sabang police was more of a character reference. With my testimony — the declaration of a British Army major — Mr. Richard, as he was referred to, was transformed, in their eyes, from a common thief to a man of honour.Admittedly, the transformation came at the expense of verifying my credentials — recently renewed passport visa, address at the Manor House, plus a lengthy request to my UK bank, that displeased me. No doubt my account would be debited with an outrageous fee.Not that I showed any irritation; the UK time-difference worked to my advantage, and a faxed supporting letter signed by Sir Archibald “something or other” brought a smile to my interrogator’s face when he showed it to me.‘You’re free to go,’ he said.I nodded. ‘And Mr. Richard?’He tinkered with a brass button on his tunic. It had lost its lustre. ‘He’ll be treated fairly.’ A hint of a challenge when his eyes met mine. ‘We’re not savages, you know.’Really? Sharia police?I stood up. My turn to smile. Under my breath as I walked out. Merely seventh-century advocates, Muhammed.The “walking out” left me in a quandary. Nearly midnight, and nobody sitting in the room we vacated. I decided to go back to our guesthouse, return the next morning refreshed.But I was waylaid outside by Tevfik. He offered me a cigarette from a crumpled pack — an evil-smelling Camel — which I declined.‘I’ll accompany you,’ he said, lighting up, and coughing. ‘It is best not to walk alone late at night.’I glanced over my shoulder. Shadows. ‘It’s good to know my welfare is being taken care of. I only wish the same could be said about Richard.’‘How do you say it,’ he said. ‘Wheels are turning, Inshallah.’The headlights of a passing pick-up silhouetted his face for an instant. His expression sincere, although I surmised he’d make a good poker player — God willing.I didn’t reply. Thought it better to let him open up during the short walk back to the guesthouse. In between his coughing spells — I resolved to cut down on my Havana consumption — he explained that Jubair was brokering a deal.I paused, looked at him. ‘What’s that?’‘To save face.’‘Save face? What a load of baloney.’Tevfik took a drag, grimaced, and dropped the cigarette butt. Squashed it under his shoe. ‘Not in Sumatra,’ he said. ‘To respect Asian culture is as important as being a good Muslim.’‘Hang, on,’ I said, as the thought struck me. ‘Who are we talking about?’He sighed, opened his hands, palms up. They were empty. Nothing to hide.‘Amera was born in Sumatra. Went to school here, learnt the language and customs, before continuing her education in her home country, Pakistan.’Amera?Pieces of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘Her face?’ I said. Tevfik nodded, and we walked a little more in silence. At the guesthouse I opened the front door with the key given to me. I wasn’t ready to sleep, despite the late hour, and I invited him in. He accepted, and we made our way to my room.‘Better if I hear the whole damn deal,’ I said, pointing at the solitary chair beside my bed, ‘and don’t bullshit me.’He took the seat, and I slumped on the bed, plumped up the pillow, and waited. To me it seemed that he enjoyed talking to a captive audience — compensating for an inferiority complex? — And I indulged him.The deal had as many tentacles as an octopus, but the main players — and recipients were Muslim Relief, Tevfik, Richard, Ibrahim and the Sharia police. The Agency would have their funds returned, the police would be compensated for their time and effort, and Ibrahim would receive a generous severance package on the condition he withdrew the charges against Tevfik and Richard.Simple.Except that the size of Ibrahim’s severance package and police compensation was being contested.‘Muslim Relief is being blackmailed,’ Tevfik said. ‘Negotiations might take a while.’I looked up at the cracks in the ceiling plaster, moved my eyes down the wall. A damp spot near the window frame that had paint flaking off.‘And in the meantime,’ I said, ‘Richard—being an infidel, and possibly an affluent one—is being held hostage.’He nodded. ‘You would call it a bargaining chip,’ he said, narrowing his eyes and scratching his chin. ‘Is he rich?’I mentally kicked myself for insinuating that. Time to set the record straight. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Our property is rented, and we both live off our pensions. Our sole luxury in life is a bottle of wine at Christmas. Goes with the chicken giblets,’ I said.His face dropped a notch. ‘That’s unfortunate,’ he said. ‘Most unfortunate.’We lapsed into silence again, while he shuffled up from his seat. He was ready to leave me. I knew Jubair wouldn’t be happy to receive the news. No doubt this scenario had been arranged between the pair of them, and I was — supposedly — the unsuspecting victim. With that in mind, I thanked him, and escorted him out.Plan B was taking shape. I even whistled while I took a shower and readied for sleep. Clearly my ploy to transform Richard as a man of honour had misfired. Now he was a man of substance. If I wanted to save him from his continued incarceration — and I needed to — I had one card to play.A King.Media exposure of corruption, or the threat of it — and I had the one person who could bring fear into the heart and minds of everyone involved:---The Sharia Police.--Ibrahim.--Even Amera.And me. Even though he was the last person I ever wanted to confront again, Richard’s situation looked desperate. In the morning, I would cross that barrier.I’d call Kostya.And be damned.

‘You won’t like this.’Jubair appeared troubled. Most unlike the man I first met. His self-confidence and composure shattered since. I wondered if his companion, Amera, had anything to do with it.Nevertheless, he endured Charles’s onslaught dutifully, and without rancour. His answers were too glib, though, and I suspected our visit to Tevfik’s homestay had been reported back. No coincidence. We had been followed to the restaurant.Hence Amera’s attitude; her desire not to be seen with us, and her insistence that Jubair handled it.Why?Jubair unfastened his watch, placed it on the table. ‘I’ll recap for you Mr. Fotheringay…’While he brought Charles up to speed I shuffled in my seat, rubbed my leg, glanced around the terrace. Mostly empty now, tables being cleared and wiped down. I tuned in and out of the one-sided conversation, Charles hanging on every syllable.‘Ibrahim denies any wrong doing … has manufactured a justification … his defence implicates Mr. Richard…’What!? Implicates Mr. Richard?They were looking at me. Charles shaking his head, frowning, and Jubair with what seemed like an apologetic expression.‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I tried to talk Amera out of it, but she insisted.’ He picked up his watch, glanced over the balustrade. ‘She has called the police.’I jumped up and banged my fist on the table. ‘You bastard. This whole scene was a sham. You’ve set me up.’‘No,’ he said, crossing his arms. ‘That was not ... and never has been my intention. I … we … need your help.’‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted Charles. ‘Why go to all this elaborate subterfuge when you could have simply asked us?’His head hung down. Didn’t answer. I suspected.Amera.‘And how did you know we would visit Sabang?’ Charles in full stride.Jubair looked up. ‘We didn’t expect you, Mr. Fotheringay, but we knew Mr. Richard would probably come to take back his houseboy. We encouraged Tevfik to facilitate that.’Hence his phone call. Bloody can’t trust anyone.‘Where is Eko?’ I said. ‘And what happened to Tevfik?’Jubair smiled. ‘Eko is with Tevfik’s wife. She’s recuperating from her illness at her cousin’s resort. The boy is safe.’ He glanced outside once more as if expecting a motorcade of police cruisers emitting high-pitched sirens. ‘Tevfik, you’ll meet him soon. At the police station.’I gave Charles a look. He shrugged. Probably thinking we’re here now, let’s go with it — or similar.Which was all very well, but my head was on the block. Good news, though, about Eko, if I could wriggle out of whatever I was accused of, and quickly.Sharia police posed a different challenge. For years, we had kept ourselves inconspicuous while at the House in north Sumatra, a province away from the Free Aceh Movement troubles. Since the tsunami, hundreds of aid workers moved in to rented accommodation, and Sabang became an R&R island.I hoped by now the police were familiar with the constant influx of foreigners, their ways and behaviours, but the law was strict, and I didn’t want to fall foul of it……‘Okay. Let’s move. Our escort’s arrived.’Charles prodding through my reflections stirred me into action. Outside, after settling our bill, two police hustled us all into a Toyota mini-bus and drove us to the police station.It soon became clear. Ibrahim was being interviewed, while the three of us met Tevfik in another room. He sat in a wooden chair, elbows pressed against a table top, head in hands. When we entered he offered us a weak smile, and a subdued Islamic greeting.Not a happy reunion.Charles wasn’t fazed. He took centre stage as we pulled up chairs and sat. I listened while he addressed them.‘We’re really not interested in your internal affairs, so if you can clear Richard from any supposed wrong-doing, we can get on our way.’Exactly.Tevfik raised his head, looked at Jubair. ‘Tell him,’ he said.Jubair coughed. ‘Ibrahim is accusing Mr. Richard of conspiring with Tevfik. That’s it.’‘That’s it?’ I said. ‘I had nothing to do with your bloody sting operation.’Jubair held up a hand. ‘You travelled from Lampu’uk together — witnessed at several police check-points. Ibrahim makes a convincing case of your involvement.’Charles interrupted. ‘So what?’‘He said Mr. Richard persuaded him to bring the money to Tevfik to fund new projects in Sabang.’‘Jeez,’ I said, ‘all bloody bullshit.’‘Not to the police,’ said Jubair. ‘Robbery is a serious crime.’Tevfik chimed in. ‘And it’s our word against his. Worse still. Muslim Relief are distancing themselves from all this.’Oh, heck. Bloody Amera?A knock on the door, and in came a police officer. His dapper apparel designated him as a senior officer, confirmed on introduction.‘I will need statements from all of you,’ he said, looking at me. ‘Mr. Richard? You first.’At that moment my phone rang. I took it out. Delcie. I didn’t have the inclination to explain my predicament, and with the policeman beckoning me, I told her I didn’t know when I’d return, and switched off.The “interview” lasted one hour, most of which was written down. In English. I read it over a few times, made adjustments, and signed it. I was told to wait.In a holding cell. With an empty bucket, a few cockroaches, and a box of Kleenex as company.The processing — I presumed — moved into the early hours. By then my belongings had been confiscated, and I’d laid out supine on the stained mattress in the cell, and dozed off. No spirits visited me, not even Angelique. I awoke at dawn call to prayer, alone.What?Where was Charles? Or Tevfik?

Hamish’s conspiratorial grin annoyed me. He reminded me of a naughty school kid, and I wondered why I felt attracted to him in the first place.Vulnerable? Yes. I’d been at a low point and I grabbed at anything and anyone who made me feel good inside. My weakness — men who offered no real comfort.I sighed. ‘I thought you were in surgery.’‘Delcie, I’m winding down, handing over my role to others. That’s what I want to talk to you about.’‘Oh,’ I said. I restrained from mentioning Beatriz — I’d rather have a lobotomy than show any emotion to him.‘Lucky I caught you before you left. Who were you waiting for?’Not you, that’s for sure. ‘Just gathering my thoughts. Thinking about Rod’s visit.’‘Ah, and that’s the other matter.’He was being obtuse, I could tell. Another of his childish pranks, no doubt. I sighed, replaced my magazine, and stood up. ‘Well, come on then. Back to your office?’‘Eh, no,’ he said. ‘There’s a consultancy room over there’— he pointed — ‘it’s private.’Whatever.Inside a table and two chairs. He closed the door, and we sat facing each other, the table between us. I looked him in the eyes — puffed up and red — stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his skin pale and leathery. His stint here in Aceh had taken its toll.‘Well?’ I said.He rubbed a hand across his face, grimacing as he did so. ‘I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I’ve no reason to linger, now that Rod’s arranging Jane’s funeral in the UK, and Junior is being transferred to a children’s hospital in Jakarta.’‘I’m glad,’ I said, ‘you look worn-out.’He half-smiled. ‘Jane, Junior, and Mary—I wouldn’t want to go through that again.’ He stopped as if a thought had struck him. ‘And talking of Mary, she told me to forget about the paternity tests. It didn’t matter anymore.’ He peered into my eyes. ‘You visited her. Do you know why?’Good grief.I held his gaze, my mind working overtime. ‘News to me,’ I said. ‘How did that come about?’He shrugged. ‘After we wheeled her into a private room, care of NEMO, I understand. Maybe Rod knows.’Hmm.There wasn’t much left to talk about. We skirted around each other like wary animals afraid to interact, and eventually I tired of the diversion. I stood up. So did he. ‘Have a safe trip,’ I said. We didn’t embrace or shake hands. I suspect he knew the reason why.‘And you,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about Jane and…well you know…’Matters of the heart left unsaid. I had nothing to add. Just acknowledged his words, and departed, him staring at my back, or so I surmised.With Hamish ticked off my list, and off the radar, my attention rested on Rod. His visit had triggered Mary’s change of mood. Money was in the equation, somehow, and I resolved to find out.Right then.I shouldered my handbag, walked outside, and hailed a waiting taxi. ‘NEMO offices,’ I said to the driver.Mid-afternoon. On my way, I wondered if the “boys” had made any progress with a replacement for Hannah. I pulled out my phone, but the battery was flat.Damn.At NEMO’s offices I half-expected Rod to be otherwise engaged, but remarkably he was available, and pleased to see me.‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘I messaged you. Did you read it?’I shook my head. ‘Sorry, my phone needs recharging.’He frowned. ‘Then..?’‘In private?’ I said.‘Yes, of course. Follow me. Would you like a coffee?’All charm that day. Like a heavy weight off his shoulders.‘Okay,’ he said, when seated in the library room, and sipping hot coffee from mugs. ‘I had good news for Mary.’I waited. Yes, NEMO were funding repatriation and funeral expenses, but more importantly — he started to speak.‘NEMO has a splendid staff welfare policy. Life and accident cover for all senior Ex-pats. Head office confirmed today that Jane was eligible, and ready to pay a substantial amount into her estate.’ He ignored my startled expression and continued. ‘I immediately went to see Mary to tell her.’I smiled at him. ‘Great news. How much?’He swallowed. Looked at me. Looked around the room, perhaps expecting an eavesdropper. ‘Promise you won’t tell?’I could have told him I’d kept secrets for decades. I could have told him I knew who fathered Angelique. But it didn’t matter — right then. All I wanted was to get Mary off my back. So I copied the bedside smile and affirmative spiel Hamish reserved for his patients.‘Rod, you know me better than that.’He nodded. ‘And believe me, I’m mighty relieved that my job is safe. Must be Karma.’‘Well?’‘All in all, close to half a million sterling, plus ongoing care for the baby.’Good heavens. No wonder Mary dropped the paternity tests. Didn’t want any man sharing that windfall. I immediately regretted my thoughts. For me, all the money in the world wouldn’t replace Jane. I couldn’t even say goodbye to her at her funeral. I wiped away a tear.What would I tell the “boys”?I drained my coffee, wrapped up further pleasantries with Rod, and wished him well. Decided to buy a chicken take-away on my way back to the Manor, and wallow in my wake with a bottle of Gordon’s.Good plan.The Manor was shrouded in darkness when I returned. I frowned. No welcoming light. Where were they?They weren’t inside. I switched on the downstairs lamps and made my way to the kitchen. Priorities: plug in the phone recharger, eat my dinner, settle down with a large gin, and then call them.The chicken was too spicy, and the rice too soggy. I cursed the lack of a housekeeper, and hoped the “boys” would turn up trumps on their return.With that thought I picked up the house phone, thumbed through the directory, and found Richard’s number.I called him.He answered.‘Where are you? I said. ‘Have you found a replacement for Hannah, yet?’Hesitation from his end. ‘I’m with Charles. At the police station in Sabang. We’ve run into a glitch.’ More hesitation. ‘I’m not sure when we’ll get back.’At the police station? In Sabang? I sensed uncertainty in his voice. Strange. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’‘We don’t know yet.’ I heard voices. ‘That’s the problem...I have to go.’He disconnected.Sugar and shit. What now?

​The goat stood in the office compound, loosely tethered to a post. It was a bright and warm Sunday the day I arrived at Loliondo, my mind crammed full with images of Serengeti wildlife, and the wandering Maasai tribes herding their cattle.A Maasai man’s wealth and position in the community is measured by the number of cows he possesses – not goats.A pet, I thought. Bit like having an office cat or dog. I shrugged - Sunday was not a working day - and my driver, having parked the Land Cruiser wanted his free time also, so we walked the hundred metres to where I was booked in for the week.Couldn’t call it a hotel, or even a hostel – the dingy room more akin to a prison cell, but with an ensuite cold shower and rudimentary toilet bowl, being buzzed by mosquitoes. Single bed, lumpy mattress, cold stone floor with a doormat. A chair to hang my clothes and a bedside lamp resting on a solid wooden box. I plugged in the lamp to the one electrical socket, and switched it on.The bulb fused.Undaunted, I ventured back outside into the enclosed courtyard, smelt the fresh air, and asked the smiling host - all sparkling teeth - for a “Safari lager”, a new lightbulb and a bug spray.My day off, also.

Monday morning early was cold and damp, rain spitting down. Not the Africa I knew. While I supped hot tea with added ginger – warming the cockles – I was engaged by a few locals wrapped in overcoats, woollen hats and scarves. After the ‘where you from?’, and ‘what you doing here?’ and my mention of England and my visit to the Aid agency outpost, the elder told me about Loliondo.‘We call this place “Little London”, he said, with a wide grin on his face. Lit a roll-up, coughed and gulped down his mug of tea. ‘Always wet and cold.’‘Oh,’ I said.At lunchtime in the office – “vegetarian”, I said. Looks of surprise. The weather had improved enough for me to venture outside with my egg sandwich.The goat had been moved into a shelter. Out of the rain. I mentioned “how kind” to the accountant on my return from the latrine.She looked away.Come evening, a welcoming barbecue for visiting Maasai guests.Chunks of sizzling meat on wooden skewers.‘Oh,’ I said.

Author

Bio: British age 74 (young) retired and living in Thailand. Profession, Charity Auditor working in some 40 countries over the last ten years before retiring. Familiar with writing reports to professional standard. Sense of humour, reserved, realist and down to earth. Enjoy writing with a passion for the unusual.Genre: Fiction crime Email: stephenterry747@hotmail.comPhone: 0066823250835 Thailand